


Aftermath

by LadyTroll



Series: Eternity is a Long Time Coming [1]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Canonical Character Death mentioned, Gen, Present Tense, aftermath of the Legends from Beyond the Galactic Terrorvortex, eh fuck it I'll have two fics with the same name then, the regular GH disclaimer applies, warning: headcanons ahead, wtf this started out sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: No rest for the immortals.
Series: Eternity is a Long Time Coming [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761433
Comments: 20
Kudos: 10





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, who wants to hear a completely stupid, impossible headcanon?

The putrid stench of living flesh burning on the battlefield hovers in the air. Heavy and repulsive, it clings to everything; the uniform and hair reek of other people’s death, and it feels like it clings to very skin and will accompany one until the end of their miserable life like a morbid reminder of things done that cannot be reversed.

The submarine commander does not dare to open his eyes at first, fearing what he will see. He expects battlefield and rubble, and scarred landscape, and charred corpses. When he finally does brave the inevitable, he finds himself lying on a nondescript bed, staring into nondescript ceiling in a nondescript room flooded with cold light he can vaguely pinpoint as somewhere… somewhere… he does not really know, _where_ , anymore. On board of the “Hootsforce”, perhaps? Did the vessel even survive? That part of Ralathor’s memory is completely blank, for some hootsawful reason. Resistance base in Achnasheen, perhaps? How long must he have slept, in that case?

Somebody coughs. To attract his attention, without a doubt, and he scouts the room for the culprit.

The Hootsman sits on a nondescript chair at a nondescript table, his hands rested on his knees, a knife with an obsidian blade in his right hand, as the Holy King of Unst waits.

\- Angus… - the commander starts, unsure himself whether he is asking, or answering a question unasked.

The Hootsman casts a look at the corner of the table where an all too familiar weapon – a war hammer – sits, propped up against it, and what colour there has been until now rushes to leave Ralathor’s face.

On the first look, the weapon seems as usual. Upon closer inspection, however, it is visible that the sigil that has been emblazoned on its side for centuries is no longer there, as though it has been wiped – or has never existed at all. Just a regular war hammer, to anyone ignorant of its history and purpose. Nothing more than a weapon, just like so many piles of them in the armouries throughout the kingdom. If you told anyone that this was the ultimate tool to defeat the dark wizard, people would call you insane.

\- What happened to him?

\- Schiehallion, - the barbarian clears his throat, before placing the knife on the table. – Threw himself right in. Say what you may of him, but that kid had a lot of courage. Kill the evil before it takes root.

There is one more question, one that the commander bites back and leaves unasked.

There is no point. He already knows the answer.

So instead, he directs his energy to more pressing matters.

Like his head, that is pounding like a unicorn kicked it.

The last thing Ralathor remembers before everything faded to black is that something hit the back of his head. Now that he thinks of it, that something felt very similar to how the Hootsman claps on his friends’ backs. And he is sure there were no unicorns on the battlefield, at least not in his close proximity.

\- I had to, - the demigod shrugs, as he notices the accusing and questioning look. – I doubt you’d have let me take you away from there without a fight. Didn’t want to hurt you more than necessary, is all.

\- You’re a demigod, you moron! – accusations, deserved but unnecessary, fly at the Holy King of Unst, who takes it all in proud silence. – You could’ve saved him!

\- No, - the answer drops, like a block of lead. – You know just as well as I do, there was nothing we could have done. You ought to know that there is no way back. Just like nobody can magic _Zargothrax_ back into living from that… whatever he got turned into… _Angus_ could not be saved from the corruption. That’s how these things work. It's a one-way ticket.

\- Why didn’t you intervene earlier, then? – accusations still roll in; spoken in a silent voice, they feel all the more vicious, but neither of the sides care for pleasantries right now. – You could have prevented all of this.

\- You’re forgetting how gods work, - another, vague, shrug follows. – Can’t intervene when stupid mortals play their war games. When that cunt decided he wanted to become a god and set about doing so, too, though – that’s when I got a wildcard. Then, I could do whatever it took to not allow him to become one. Also, it’s not like you asked for my help, either.

\- _I beg your pardon?!_

\- A hint would have been nice, you know. Something simple, like: “Hey, we could really use your help in the epic final struggle with the dark sorcerer!” I just assumed you didn’t need me. Was almost late, because of that!

\- Hoots damnit, Hootsman!

\- _Achoo!_ \- being a demigod obviously has not changed the fact that the Hootsman can sneeze loud enough to wake the dead – hopefully as a figure of speech only. – Don’t cuss!

\- How can a god not notice people calling out to him?!

\- In my defence, _that’s how gods work._ Also, turns out, every time you, bastards, call to me, I have to sneeze. Bit hard to answer prayers when you’re sneezing your head off! _Achoo!_ There it is again!

The commander mutters something under his breath; something that sounds suspiciously like “an alcoholic cyborg, that’s who you are”, before he kindly changes the subject.

The Hootsman does not exactly boast superior stealth skills. On the contrary, he is more like the definition of a rhinoceros in a porcelain shop when it comes to that, and thus Ralathor just has to ask the question, although the commander dreads what he will hear for answer:

\- Does anyone else know you’re here?

\- Uh… - the moment that the Hootsman spends thinking is long enough to raise suspicion, - no? Well… I don’t think so, at least? Anyway… uh… yes, far as everyone is concerned, they found you, passed out, on the battlefield, where the final battle took place. They hauled you back and, since you didn’t lack anything, save for consciousness, they put you in here, where it’s silent. Far away from the injured and the dying. Do believe me when I say, you should be grateful for that. And, as far as _I hope_ everybody else is concerned – _Achoo!_ \- I’m also back where I belong. Wherever they think I belong at. Not sure where they think that is.

\- Unst. You’re back on Unst. You’re the Holy King of Unst, remember?

\- Yes, that’s where I live! 1 How comes I don’t see hordes of pilgrims flocking there, daily? Heathens, all of you!

\- Mount Olympus.

\- What nimbus?

\- _Mount Olympus_. Folks used to believe their gods lived on the Mount Olympus. It was a perfectly climbable mountain, but nobody ever bothered to go and check it for the presence of any godly entities.2

The roaring laughter of the barbarian fills the room, as he kicks back on the chair, laughing himself to tears, slapping his belly hard, with random sneezes peppered in, and the submarine commander winces, his head pounding with dull ache.

\- Now _that_ sounds like my kind of people! I wonder if there are any in this universe.

\- Hoots, there _are_ , and they all are worshipping you as their god.

From the looks of it, the Demigod of Unst might as well pass out, so hard is he laughing right now, tears streaming down his cheeks, and there is very little hope left that people are not going to notice his presence soon. Maybe they already have. Maybe this whole thing is just an elaborate joke they are playing on their commander.

\- So, anyway, - the Hootsman finally calms down, wipes away the tears, rises and brushes dust off his armour, - somewhere out there, in another time and universe, Dundee is about to burn, and Angus McFife the First is soon going to set out in searches for a way to defeat Zargothrax. We have the Hammer of Glory, and the Knife of Evil, and, - he adds a third item to the artefacts already there, - this little fucker that people apparently call a something-something-laser-blaster that wreaks havoc wherever you point it, but which I simply call “the thing that keeps going missing any chance it has, I swear it’s worse than car keys”. What say you, up for another adventure?

\- It never ends, does it?

\- Paradox.

Ralathor does not answer or argue this; instead, he begins rising from the bed. Every part of his body protests, and the heart is still heavy, but right now that only means clenching his teeth and going on as intended. There will be time to rest and to reflect, but later. Much later, after all is said and done. Cannot afford to do so now. Not now, not when there are still things to do and matters to settle. The Hootsman watches, his head tilted slightly, as he ponders on whether or not his help would be needed – or even wanted.

The Holy King of Unst finally decides, his aid is, in fact, not necessary, and sets about gathering the three artefacts. With the blaster securely at his belt – until the next time it goes missing, for gods (no pun intended) know just how easy it is to lose the blasted (no pun intended, again) thing – and the hammer ready to be picked up, the Hootsman weighs the knife in his hand, before he offers it to the one about to become the Mysterious Hermit of Cowdenbeath again.

\- I’m a bit obvious when it comes to hiding these things, - he explains. – The Hammer of Glory sits atop the peak of a mountain in the north, and I’ll probably place the blaster somewhere really obvious, too, _if_ I don’t lose it next chance I have. Which I probably will – _Achoo!_ But the knife would be a mess if somebody found it before its time, and you have a talent for not being found until you _want_ to be found, so you’ll do better by it.

Ralathor turns the knife in his hands a couple of times, the lifeless white light from the ceiling lamp reflecting from the blade. It is a sad, depressing irony how the thing has now become his responsibility.

\- Ready? – his ponders are interrupted by the Hootsman. The latter has finished creating what can be described as a shimmering curtain in the doorway. The door stands wide open now, and it seems only a matter of time before somebody notices something weird (-er than wizard invasions and flying submarines, in any case) is happening. All somebody has to do for that is to walk by at the worst moment possible.

Which would be, _now_. Especially with the Hootsman sneezing up a storm. (“Somebody must be dying, I think.”)

\- Ladies and mysterious hermits first! – the barbarian turned cyborg who somehow managed to become a demigod instead of dying in an explosion that tore a hole in the fabric of the universe itself, mock bows, gesturing at the portal.

\- Do you _really_ want to be covered in green dots for the rest of the eternity?

The Hootsman thinks for a second, before admitting he will be better off if he does not tempt the fates any further. It is high time they move on. Or, at least he thinks so. He is not sure what will happen once he crosses over. A god has ways to be absent while still watching over the world, yet again he has never actually _been_ absent before.

It is difficult to be a god.

Especially if that god has to watch over Dundee.

Everything always happens in Dundee. Not even California had been that bad, and that place, for some reason, saw more alien invasions and natural disasters than any other.

Of course, the aliens and natural disasters also saw _the Hootsman_. Then they usually left, apologizing profusely while they did.

\- Hold on a second! – Ralathor stops, right in front of the curtain-like portal. – You replaced me with a goblin!

\- Pardon?

\- Goblin, - it is incredibly difficult for the Hootsman to read the hermit’s mood, as it seems to sway somewhere between utterly annoyed and amused. – Leading this dimension’s Angus into Zargothrax’s tower. You replaced me, _with a goblin_. He bribed, a goblin, to take him to Zargothrax.

\- Wait, how do you k— Oooh, - the Hootsman furrows his brow, - so _that’s_ where the fucker went! I thought _our_ Zargothrax did that, but it was _you_! It’s not fair – _Achoo!_ \- that you can just choose to go ink… inky?

\- Incognito?

\- Yes, that’s the bitch! You can’t do that to me! I’m a god! And where is he now?

\- How should I know? – the hermit snarls. – Do I look like his babysitter?

\- You didn’t just… - the demigod stares at the hermit, his eyes like saucers, and it is visible he makes an attempt to scry the person in question, before his face drops, - you didn’t just let a dark wizard free to roam the countryside?

\- That was part of the deal, - Ralathor turns his back on him and walks towards the portal, - and the only reason he agreed.3

\- Well, you’re going to have to tell me all about that later!

The barbarian catches up with the hermit, and a minute later there is no sign of them ever having been in the room whatsoever, save for a beret with a unicorn insignia that lies on the nondescript table.

**Author's Note:**

> You know how I come up with stupid headcanons while at work? Yeah, this is one of them. I MEAN...  
> In any case, it'll probably get wiped once Bowes & Co. decide to explain wtf _is_ up with these two guys.
> 
> 1\. I have a feeling that, with all the ridiculous stuff that is the Gloryhammer lore, Hoots was sitting on Unst the whole time, and ''a god falls from the sky'' was just because he was super late for the epic final battle. It's just that nobody bothered to go check if he was there, and later it was, like: "We have a bit of situation with evil wizards here, _Karen_ , ain't nobody got the time for that right now", and that is the hill I will die on.
> 
> 2\. Yes, that joke. I actually looked it up while I was writing this, and it turns out that, while Mount Olympus is perfectly climbable _now_ , back in the day when the myths were created it would have been a bit problematic to climb without special gear. And let's face it, if some dude did climb it specifically to search for the gods, you could always go: "They are invisible, DUH!"
> 
> 3\. This _will_ be acted upon, but later.


End file.
